


politics and pretty things

by sacrsanct



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, a little bit of a gansey study at times, and a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 15:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrsanct/pseuds/sacrsanct
Summary: He stares in amazement as she stalks off. It doesn’t shock him that this girl was the death of him. She’ll be the death of him again and again, a million more times. Pain and beauty and Blue Sargent at the center of it all.orGansey really, really, really wants to kiss Blue. He can't, so he does the next best thing.





	politics and pretty things

**Author's Note:**

> i set out to make this a filthy praise kink story and now it's, like, emotional?

Gansey is sick to shit of politics. Day in and day out, he slaps on an expensive watch and an expensive smile, and he trudges his way through acres of mundanity. For his family. Whom he cares for. For his future. Which he values.

Christ. He never thought that relaxing could be this… _ boring _.

At least he has Blue hanging off his arm to keep things a little interesting. She’s been banned from speaking _ too _much of her opinion at events like this, because dating a non-Republican is bad enough, and some of the things she espouses are straight-up communism and anarchy. Gansey’s seen enough death for one lifetime, thank you. Or three, really. He doesn’t need a seventy-seven-year-old Congressman keeling over and dying at his mixed-race, bisexual, fuck-the-system-to-pieces girlfriend.

He doesn’t need _ himself _ dying. Again. He loves Blue so, so much, but it’s still a little mind-boggling that he’s both voting red and dating her.

Adam calls it compromise; Ronan calls it foolishness; Henry simply calls it true love. If Noah was here, Gansey wonders what he would think.

They haven’t kissed since that day. Blue and Gansey. They don’t want to risk it. Or, more like they want to risk it so badly it hurts, so badly it feels like magnetism and magic whenever their faces are near, so badly Gansey aches from head to toe and from skin to bone at the thought of her lips on his.

They make do with what they have.

Tonight, she’s dolled up in a short maroon wrap dress. He brushes her side. It’s velvety-feeling, and it’s got spaghetti straps.

“You clean up okay,” she says to him, the same as she always does when he’s wearing a suit. And, call him conceited, but Gansey knows. He looks damn fine.

(Ronan said that to him, once. He was pretty drunk. But he said to Gansey that in a suit, he looked _ damn fine _. It caused Gansey to blush in ways he hasn’t ever really let himself think about.)

“You clean up wonderfully,” is his standard reply. She does. She really does. She always looks beautiful—wild, otherworldly. Like she’s got leaves in her hair and a song in her heart. She’s half wilderness and half human, and he thinks, sometimes, that the human half has her circling higher in the stars than the other half does. She’s a mystery and a whirlwind, a cymbal crash in a church and a salve on a burn. She’s everything.

And when she dresses up like this, it does something else to her. She’s not exactly _ comfortable _like this, but she’s growing into it. Loathe as she would be to admit it. Her hair is elegantly swept back into a low bun, a few curls coming out to frame her face. She has a slit in her eyebrow that she hasn’t filled in, and a small stud glinting on the side of her freckled nose. She’s too much to put into one cocktail dress, and he loves how she always bleeds through the edges.

Gansey’s still a little too boxed up. Even now. You’d think that dying twice would make a person flip off a few lawmakers and yell a swear word or two in the middle of a party, but, alas, those are only dreams. And he isn’t the one who can pull fantasy into reality.

Blue pulls a strand of his gelled hair around her finger, twisting it into the middle of his forehead. “You’ve got character now.”

He laughs, a little bit pitifully, and tightens his salmon-pink tie. “Ready to go?”

Blue’s wearing combat boots. Gansey delights at the idea of her trekking mud into whatever fancy parlor they’re headed to.

It’s a short car ride away, and they meet up with the rest of his family beforehand. Helen gives Blue an affectionate head pat, mindful to not muss up her hair. Appearances are, and always will be, everything.

Gansey wants to say that the party passes in a blur, but that would be a lie. Every second spent discussing severance taxes for fracking and the electoral implications of the exodus to the Rust Belt sends his muscles into a dizzying spiral of _ get out of here now and chase something new _.

Dead kings and pretty things. That’s what he likes. Not politics. Not now, at least. Politics is much too mundane. Anything that can be spliced and quantified isn’t worth the effort. He’s leaned into the whole unpredictability thing and leaned into it hard. It’s like a drug. Or a very tight corset. He can’t release himself, and he isn’t really sure he wants to, because he likes the way it makes him look and loves the way it makes him feel.

The moments drag on and on and Blue’s gone now, terrorizing the party on her own, which isn’t usually prudent, but it’s also always bound to happen. She’s her own person, after all. As much as Gansey’s parents resent that. She’s not on a leash.

Twelve minutes—twelve minutes!—into a particularly bland discussion about _ past _voting trends amongst white suburban constituents—not even present voting trends!—not even future voting trends!—Blue shows up at his elbow. Or, more accurately, at his shoulder, which is where her head reaches up to.

“Hey there, Dick,” she says, because it always gets a rise out of older folk, the way that she says his name like it’s nothing more than a joke and more serious than life. “How goes the shop talk?”

“It goes well,” he lies through his teeth. His accent is flat, and he hates the sound of money stuck under his tongue. “We were just discussing—”

“Voting trends, right? I caught the last minute of this. Well. I know it’s all well and good for you to act like the white Pennsylvanians are the key to everything, but I think that for _ this _sort of race, it’s a different story.”

Gansey’s conversation buddy gapes a little. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you,” he says, not unkindly.

Which is leagues better than the reaction the majority of Gansey’s conservative buddies have to her. Or to Ronan or Henry. Or even to Adam.

“Blue Sargent,” she says, sticking her hand out. It’s always a weird test to see which men take it and which don’t, but this one grasps it firmly between his own (a two-handed shake, like all the old money powerhouses were taught to do when they passed the age of twenty-five) and shakes. “It is a bona fide pleasure to meet you.” 

Gansey isn’t sure if she’s kidding or not. He still isn’t sure about a lot of things. But that’s why he loves her, he supposes.

Before the man has a chance to introduce himself, Blue says, “I’m going to have to steal my boyfriend for a moment.”

She doesn’t apologize or ask permission. She takes and parades onwards (excelsior, of course) and shrugs at the mess she’s left behind. If it isn’t worth her time, she doesn’t give it a second thought. If it is, she throws herself wholeheartedly into it.

They find a largely secluded corner. “Doing good?” she asks, because she cares.

“Doing well,” he says. This time it really isn’t a lie. Seeing her in her element is a beautiful experience, and Blue Sargent is rarely more in her element than when she’s blowing a situation sideways and taking charge. There are stares from around the room at her, as there always are. Gansey’s equal parts dreading and delighting in the idea of running damage control with his parents later tonight.

It’s not like she purposefully wants to wreak havoc. But she’s just unabashedly herself, and she doesn’t give much mind to the fact that some people would rather she be someone else. That was never an option for her. It never will be.

It thrills Gansey. It makes him feel like he’s flirting with danger.

It’s kind of sad that his idea of _ danger _ is just being himself.

“Want to get out of here?” she offers, as if it’s as simple as sneaking out the back door.

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t need to add _ but we can’t _ . _ But _ I _ can’t _.

She places a hand delicately on the back of his neck and applies a bit of pressure, tugging him down towards her. It’s not like she has to do much. He’s always drawn to her, always trying to get closer.

He stops when their faces are about level, and he remembers how her kiss felt.

“You’re doing so well,” she purrs into his ear—really and truly _ purrs _—and suddenly, he thinks he could talk about severance taxes all night if it meant she’d reward him with the same words. The same voice. “You’re doing so well, darling, and you just have an hour more. And then I can come home with you. I love you.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, slow and dear, the way he imagines she might kiss his mouth. He doesn’t rub away the mark her plum-bruised lips leave.

Even though it’s already knotted firmly against his throat, he tugs at his tie to tighten it again.

The rest of the hour seems to last even longer than the previous two have. Every way Gansey looks, Blue’s flitting out of sight, her legs a sight to behold as they draw her further and further away.

But her orbital pull is strong, and somehow, some way, Gansey circles back into her. He thinks he always will.

“Ten minutes left,” he says as a way of greeting, tucking a stray curl back into her black scrunchie.

“You’re doing amazingly, love,” she responds, and the room feels a degree or two hotter. “Now, I’ve got to go bother Helen about why she’s canvassing for exactly the wrong person.”

He stares in amazement as she stalks off. It doesn’t shock him that this girl was the death of him. She’ll be the death of him again and again, a million more times. Pain and beauty and Blue Sargent at the center of it all.

The night closes with a too-long toast and hands clapping him on the back like he’s a bag of rice at the store. Blue slips through it all, four-foot-eleven of _ fuck off _, but he’s five nine and gregarious to a fault, so he’s a little less lucky.

By the time he gets outside, it’s started to spit. His parents and Helen are off in their own direction; he climbs into the eco-friendly Pig and doesn’t give them a second thought. Blue jumps in the passenger side and shakes her hair free from its bun. It falls in a short choppy tumble to her collarbones, and he can’t help but stare. He knows the way that skin tastes. He knows each freckle along the slope of her neck. He knows her body like he knows little else, and he loves it like little else, too.

The rain causes bits of her hair to cling to her face, and bits of her dress to hug her chest tightly.

“Anti-feminist perv,” she says as soon as she notices his stare.

“Guilty as charged.” He starts up the car. She starts up the music. The stars and sky are overhead, and the clouds are crying happy tears. It is a beautiful, perfect night.

They don’t talk much on the ride, but her hand rests on her knee, and slowly, as they draw closer to Monmouth, drifts up his leg. By the time Gansey parks, she’s almost all the way to the top.

“Ronan’s not home?” she asks.

  
“Adam is still alive, so, yes, Ronan is not home,” he answers. He doesn’t think that Ronan’s seen Monmouth as his home for a few months now. Which is good. It means he’s moved on in the best kind of way.

“Great.” Her grin is wild and her teeth glow in the moonlight. She climbs atop his lap, straddling him, pressing her hips against his. She hooks her feet around his ankles, spreading his legs so that he won’t accidentally step on the gas.

“Shouldn’t we go inside?” Gansey asks, more out of habit than anything else. His brain’s a little addled, and usually, Blue waits until he’s unbuckled to jump him.

She responds by sucking a spot where his jaw meets his neck, and the moan he lets out is sinful.

Their lips can’t touch each other, but that doesn’t mean they can’t touch everything else. Blue kisses her way along Gansey’s jawline, tilting his head back with the force of her passion, running a thumb along the veins and tendons and Henrietta sunlight woven into his skin. Her hips press down, and his press up.

She pulls back. “You’re right. Let’s go inside. That was a good call.” It’s totally sincere, and it shakes him up from top to bottom.

He fumbles with the keys as she runs her hands along his belt, toying with the buckle but never undoing it. When they’re finally inside, he shuts it behind him with a superhuman level of haste, and pins her to the wall with his mouth on her neck, slipping a knee between her legs. She grinds down on it as he nips his way from jaw to clavicle and then lower, to the top of her chest. He marks her because he can, because they’re teenagers, because she usually wears shirts with a high neck. It’s beautiful to see her come undone under him. He’s rarely the one in control, rarely the one with the power, so he savors the moments that he has.

But that’s not for him and that’s not for her, and sooner or later, Blue, gasping mess that she is, pushes Gansey away before pulling him towards his bedroom.

She gets him lying face-up on the bed with the flick of one finger against his chest. He goes sprawling, and, grinning madly, she follows. Straddling him again, like she’d done just a few minutes ago in the car, except now her dress is almost all the way up her thighs and a dress strap is slipping off of her shoulder. His head spins. He’s so deeply in love.

She slips off his tie and undoes the first few buttons of his shirt. “Look at you. You’re so pretty,” she whispers from the back of her throat, and Gansey knows she can feel him straining against her, knows that she loves how he presses into her.

Awkwardly, he props himself up on his forearms and tugs off his jacket. As soon as it’s been discarded, Blue shoves him back down to the bed. She lowers her body onto his and it’s delicious the way it feels. She sucks another spot in the dip of his collarbone and whispers praises into his skin like prayers.

He tugs at the bottom of her dress, and, laughing, she shimmies out of it. He’ll never stop falling in love all over again with the way that she looks sat atop him like a queen on a throne. All hail the fucking raven king.

“Your shirt, now, baby,” she says, and he complies quicker than he thought fingers weighed down by sex and perfume could. “Good boy.”

  
His head rolls almost involuntarily, and Blue ghosts her fingers along the expanse of neck that he exposes. She brings them down, down, across his chest and to his hips. Her lips follow, kissing and biting and saying _I love you and I wish I could be with you fully, now and forever_. “Good boy,” she keeps saying. “Good boy.”

It’s a miracle she’s able to get his pants off. He thinks that, at this point, he’s just grown fully into them.

And part of him finds it funny that all he has is gray Calvin Klein boxers and mundanely matching socks and she still wants him. She still loves him when everything that he puts on display is washed off. She still loves him when he takes off his crown and places it on the bedside table, right next to his glasses and a bottle of untouched melatonin. She still loves him in her black bra and the underwear she’s kicking off her feet, and she still loves him in nothing at all.

It’s not very _ sexy _, per se, but they always use a condom. “Can’t have another one of you running around, Dick,” Blue likes to say. “I couldn’t divide my attention. I’m pretty shit at that.”

“You’re pretty shit at very few things, Jane,” he’ll reply, but at this point it doesn’t matter because he’s deep inside her and he’s certainly not the one in control.

She rides him with ferocity and desire, and when he presses his thumb against her clit, she lets out a long sigh. “You’re so good for me, baby. Right there,” she says, praising him on and on and on.

His hips rise up to meet hers, but really, he doesn’t need to do much, because the way she feels as she rises and falls on him, her skin under his fingertips, the way her hair looks as it falls down her back, her breathy moans of _oh, fuck, __good boy, _get him off more than any pistoning into her ever could.

This, he thinks, is what a kiss can’t be. He says, to the best of his ability, “I love you, Blue.”

“Good Gansey. Love you, Gansey," she says, and it sets him over the edge.

Blue keeps on riding him like he’s a lifeline and an anchor, her voice getting higher and higher. He brushes a thumb over one of her pebbled nipples and her spine arches. She’s sensitive, and he has calloused hands. “,” she says for a final time, before crying out wordlessly, voice broken.

He wants to kiss her. He settles for bruising his way along her neck, and she settles for doing the same to him. They’ll wake up happy and purple-spotted, with hickeys that even a buttoned-up Polo or three layered tank tops can’t cover. They’ll wake up the same.

He really, really wants to kiss her.

Even if he dies, he doesn’t think that he’ll have thrown anything away.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! kudos/comments mean the world


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